Sketches of a Life
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: 15 unrelated Dean Thomas drabbles and oneshots:: 1. Dean realizes why he misses Piers so much. 2. Fleur understands the way Dean uses art to escape. 3. At least Dean and Ginny can still be friends. 4. Pansy is just as sleepless as Dean. 5. Lavender helps Dean let go.
1. Realization

_Creativity Month: DeanPiers, puddle_

 _Showtime, "Nowadays": "Isn't it great?"_

 _True Confessions Day: Write about someone confessing something_

 _Buttons: "I can't take this anymore.", moon_

 _Lyric Alley: Do you feel the same when I'm away from you?_

 _Liza's Loves, Evillustrator: Write about a crush being revealed_

 _For Laura. Happy birthday, dear._

 _Word Count: 1827_

* * *

I.

Dean groans, watching helplessly as his sketchbook falls from his hands and lands directly in the puddle. Slowly, the dirty water creeps over the page, and he watches the ink bleed over the paper. Swearing under his breath, he grabs it quickly, flipping through the pages. They can't all be ruined, can they?

"Rotten luck."

The voice startles him, and Dean nearly drops his beloved sketches in the puddle a second time. He turns his dark eyes to a scrawny boy with milky white skin splattered with freckles. The stranger pushes a hand through his black hair, offering Dean a grin.

"You dropped your sketchbook."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I noticed."

The grin fades for a fraction of a second. Dean suspects no one has ever dared to use sarcasm with this bloke. Though he doesn't look scary or intimidating, Dean has enough experience with bullies to recognize one.

"Cheeky," the other boy snorts, his lips relaxing into a genuine smile. "I like it." He offers Dean his hand to shake. "Piers Polkiss."

Dean accepts his hand, though he can't help but to hesitate. Part of him is so convinced that this is some sort of trick or trap. "Dean Thomas," he says at last.

Piers nods. "Good to meet you."

…

They have nothing in common, but Dean doesn't mind. Piers is obnoxious and abrasive, and maybe he's a bit problematic, but he's Dean's first and only real friend. That has to count for something.

II.

"A private school, huh?" Piers asks as he and Dean walk through the park.

Dean nods. He doesn't know how else to explain his upcoming absence. After all, he's still coming to terms with the fact that he's a wizard. How could he ever explain it to Piers?

"In fucking Scotland," Piers adds, shaking his head.

"In Scotland," Dean confirms.

Piers exhales deeply. "I'll miss you, mate."

Dean almost laughs. It's the closest Piers has ever come to saying something deep and emotional. His lips twist into a smile, and he nudges his friend gently with his shoulder. "Not like I'm going away forever," he points out.

"Nah. You'll just be gone for nearly a whole year."

There's a hint of sadness in Piers' voice that surprises Dean. Why should it matter so much? Piers has his other friends— the group that Dean doesn't approve of, the ones Piers is so careful to keep away from Dean. Really, he probably won't even notice Dean is gone. By the time winter holidays come around, Piers will probably have forgotten Dean exists at all.

But at least he can pretend that he'll be missed.

…

He doesn't expect to feel this much sadness when he leaves. His mother and sisters accompany him to the station, but he still feels so lonely. Even as his mother reassures him and promises that he'll make lots of exciting new friends, Dean realizes he doesn't want new friends; he just wants Piers to be here with him.

III.

When winter holidays come around, he's surprised to find Piers waiting for him when the car comes to a stop outside the house. His mother offers him a confused look, but all Dean can do is grin. He had been so afraid that distance would make Piers give up, but here he is.

"Don't be too long," his mother says simply. "I'm not taking your things up by myself."

Dean leans over and pecks his mother quickly on the cheek. "You're the best, Mum," he says before throwing his door open and rushing out.

Piers greets him with a grin and a quiet, quick jerk of his head. Dean nods, and they begin to walk. The cold, December wind cuts into Dean's skin, and he can feel the icy kiss of snow flurries beginning to form. Still, he doesn't turn back. He's missed Piers too much.

"You're back," Piers says.

"Very observant of you."

Piers rolls his eyes, his thin lips tugging into a scowl. In the three years they've known one another, Dean is still certain no one else talks to Piers the way he does. If they do, Piers probably makes sure it's only once. Dean wonders if he should feel flattered to be the exception; mostly, he just wonders why he's so special.

"I'm not going to be here for Christmas," Piers says, and Dean can't figure out why his heart sinks at the announcement. It isn't as though they've ever spent holidays together; they're just friends. "Visiting my aunt and her family in Portmeirion."

"Sounds fun," Dean says. "Pretty village. I've always wanted to see it."

Piers' mocha brown eyes twinkle with what looks like a cross between excitement and hope. It's such a simple thing, but it makes Dean's stomach twist itself into knots. "Maybe we can go together some day," he says before digging into his coat pocket and pulling out a poorly wrapped lump. "It isn't much, but happy Christmas."

Dean tears away the flimsy paper and holds up the West Ham beanie. A small laugh bubbles from his throat. "You hate West Ham," he muses. "Did you wear a disguise when you bought it so no one would know?"

"Of course. I wouldn't be caught dead buying that," Piers laughs.

Dean's cheer quickly fades, replaced instead with guilt. "I didn't get you anything," he mutters.

He hasn't had time. What could he buy Piers in the magical world that would make sense?

Piers rolls his eyes. "You don't have to get me anything, stupid. Just let me be nice. You know that's a rare occurrence."

"It shouldn't be."

"Yeah." There's an edge of bitterness in his friend's voice. "I'm working on it."

"Dean!" his mother calls in the distance.

"I'd better go," Dean says. "Have a good holiday."

…

He never wants to take the beanie off. Over the years, Dean has received many gifts, but this one is different somehow. This one is more special than anything he's ever owned.

IV.

The years go like that. Dean goes to Hogwarts and comes home. He and Piers fall back into their familiar routine. He doesn't understand why he seems to live for those moments in the Muggle world. Shouldn't he be more eager for the excitement and splendor of the magical world?

He lays awake in his dormitory, watching the clouds drift over the moon. His mind is too restless for sleep to be a possibility. No matter how hard he tries, he can't stop thinking about Piers.

"I can't take this anymore," he groans, pressing his pillow and hoping that being plunged into darkness will help him relax.

It doesn't. He's still wide awake, still thinking of Piers, still trying to understand why.

And then it hits him, and he feels like a complete idiot. He has known Piers for seven years, and it's just now clicked.

Dean groans and sits up, holding his pillow to his chest. Falling in love with your best friend is absolutely terrifying to begin with, but this is worse. No matter how good Piers may be to him, he's still a bully. Maybe he isn't as bad as some of friends, but he still doesn't like people who are different.

"Fuck," Dean mutters, shaking his head.

…

He knows that he'll never be able to tell Piers. After all, he doesn't want to jeopardize their friendship. But his mind always wanders back to Piers, and maybe he's reading too much into every little kind gesture, but he wonders if Piers ever feels the same pain that Dean feels when they're apart.

He's never been one for wishful thinking, but he can't help it now. He wants to dream, believe, and wish.

V.

This is stupid. Before the week is out, Dean will be a fugitive, on the run from the Ministry and its hateful registration act. He needs to get a head start; every second he wastes could make all the difference.

And yet he finds himself outside the Polkiss residence, trembling and praying. Piers meets him in the garden.

"What's up?"

Dean opens his mouth to tell him, but the words won't come out. He can't even craft a clever lie about how he has to go away, about how this might be the last time they see one another. A war is going on, and he wishes he could be just as oblivious as Piers is.

Instead, a different truth spills from his lips. "I fancy you. More than that, actually. Two years ago, I realized I… I love you."

He wants to kick himself. He'd just wanted to say goodbye and have one last good memory to carry with him on the run. But it's too late to take the words back now, and he tries to tell himself that maybe it's for the best; he could die in this war, and maybe it's best that he doesn't die with any regrets.

Dean waits for the fallout— a homophobic slur, Piers' sharp, bony knuckles crashing against his jaw. Instead, Piers only smiles. "Thank God," he laughs, and the relief is clear in his tone.

"What?"

"Isn't this great? I've been dropping hints, too scared to say it… But you… God, you're so brave, Dean."

Relief washes over him. It had been an impulsive confession, but at least it isn't a mistake. Dean wants to smile because the world is a little brighter now, but he can't. It doesn't matter if Piers feels the same way. He still has to run.

Dean leans in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He wants to kiss him harder, but he settles for something chaste, gentle. Time is not on his side, and he knows that if he gives into temptation, he's doomed. He'll never want to leave.

"I have to go away for a bit," he says, trying to ignore the way his trembling hands perfectly match his quivering voice. "A… It's an art retreat before school starts. Only fifteen people made the cut, and—"

"And you're brilliant, as always, and you've been accepted," Piers interrupts. "Draw me like one of your French girls, okay? All I ask."

Despite it all, Dean can't help but laugh. He presses one last kiss to Piers' lips. "I will. I promise."

"I'll see you soon."

"See you soon," Dean echoes, and he hates himself for saying it when he knows that his future isn't promised.

…

He draws. Even on the hardest, darkest days, he opens his sketchbook and draws a thin, freckled boy with dark hair standing beside a puddle. He draws the same boy holding a beanie and again, standing in a garden under the milky moonlight.

His world is falling apart. But Dean still sketches with a smile on his face.

The world may be a dark, scary place, but there's a boy who's waiting for him, and that's enough to make him believe that he can make it through.


	2. Escape

_Creativity Month: Dean &Fleur, piano _

_Character Appreciation: friendship_

 _Jewel Challenge, ruby necklace: Write about a Gryffindor_

 _Caffeine Awareness, cappuccino: Write a story using only two characters_

 _Word Count: 545_

* * *

Dean sits on the piano bench, resting his sketchbook unsteadily on his lap. It isn't perfect, and he can already tell his lines are going to be shaky. He doesn't care. If he sketches, it means his hands and mind are engaged; it means he can think of something other than the war and everything he has lost.

The piano keys he renders in charcoal don't look quite right. The proportions are off, and the lines are a little too crooked. It doesn't matter. He's drawing, and that means he's still alive.

"Do you play?"

Dean startles at the sound of the soft, curious voice behind him. He turns to see Fleur approaching him, her blue eyes narrowed slightly.

He mutters a quick apology. This is hers and Bill's home after all. He is just a guest, and maybe he should have asked if it was okay to be in here first.

Fleur doesn't seem to hear his apology. If she does, she doesn't acknowledge it all. "Do you play?" she asks again.

Dean shakes his head, lifting his sketchbook. "Just drawing," he explains.

She nods and sits beside him on the bench. Her posture is rigid, and her gaze is fixed upon the keys. Slowly, she lifts her hands before pressing her slender fingers to the keys.

He's never really paid much attention to music. For the most part, it's just background noise to help him focus on whatever task is at hand. But there's something about the way Fleur plays. It's an unfamiliar melody, and maybe it's something she's made up on the spot, but it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"I didn't know you played," he says, staring at her in amazement as her fingers slow before coming to a stop.

Fleur flashes him a bright smile. "Did you zink you were ze only artist 'ere?" she asks with a soft chuckle. "My uncle was a pianist. 'E taught me when I was younger. It 'elps to keep ze mind of zings."

He nods. It's exactly why he draws. It doesn't matter if the world is on fire; as long as he can hold a pencil, he knows everything will be okay.

"May I see?" she asks, nodding towards his sketchbook.

Dean hesitates. He doesn't like showing his sketches. Even if he shows off some of them, letting someone see each and every drawing he's done feels like baring his soul. Only Seamus has ever been allowed.

But Fleur is an artist too. They may have different ways of expressing themselves, but she still understands the emotion that goes into each and every line.

He hands her the book, watching as she flips through the pages. "Zese are very good," she tells him, pausing and smiling at a rough sketch he had done of her and Bill together. "I 'ave always wanted to learn 'ow to draw."

"I could teach you," he offers.

"I would like that." And with that, she resumes playing again.

Dean can't help but to smile. The world is going to hell, and nothing is promised. But he can still pretend that everything is going to be okay. He has friends by his side and hope in his heart, and that's enough to keep him going.


	3. Gift

_Creativity Month: Dean &Ginny, rubber duck _

_Character Appreciation: Hogwarts_

 _Book Club, Charlie Ridgemont: Ginny, chess piece, imaginary_

 _Showtime, "When You're Good to Mama": basket_

 _Buttons: basket, "Did you drop this?", kill, Ron Weasley_

 _Year in Entertainment, song: "There's a time and place for everything."_

 _Caffeine Awareness, Macchiato: Write a fic set in the morning_

 _Jewel Challenge, emerald ring: Write about a gift_

 _Word Count: 535_

* * *

The morning that they're set to leave Hogwarts for the summer, Ginny is down in the common room, packing away her chess set. Ron is with her, and he glares when Dean approaches. With a sigh, Dean offers the other boy a small smile. He understands being an overprotective brother; if he's honest, he _is_ an overprotective brother. Still, he and Ginny aren't dating anymore. He has no intention of trying to date Ginny again.

"Did you drop this?" Dean asks, plucking a white rook from the floor.

"Thanks," Ginny says, accepting it and dropping it into the basket with the rest of the pieces and board.

Dean stands there awkwardly for several moments, wringing his hands together. He looks between the siblings. The awkwardness kills him a little, but he can't bring himself to move.

"Did you need something else?" Ginny asks after doing one last check for any other missing pieces.

"Yeah. To talk, if that's okay," Dean confirms.

"What about?" Ron asks, taking a step forward, his arms folded over his chest and a scowl on his lips.

Dean wants to laugh. He's known Ron for years, and he's a lovely bloke, but he is one of the least intimidating people Dean has ever met. Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face. "I want to talk to Ginny alone, actually," he says.

Before Ron can say anything, Ginny rests a hand on his shoulder. "I can take care of myself," she reminds her brother. "Go."

Ron lingers for a moment before shrugging. He offers Dean a surprisingly polite nod before stalking off. Once he's gone, Dean reaches in his pocket.

"I got you something," he says.

Ginny raises her brows. "Why?" she asks. "We broke up."

"Exes can still be friends," he points out. "Gifts aren't mutually exclusive for couples. Besides, it's more for your dad." He hands her the miniature rubber duck. "You said he was curious about it, so… I don't know. I figured it was the least I could do."

Her lips quirk into a smile as she accepts the yellow toy. "It's just for my dad? You aren't…?" She trails off, a deep pink staining her cheeks. "Not that… Well, you know." She laughs, scrubbing her hand over her neck.

"There's a time and place for everything," he says, shrugging. "We had ours, and it was fun, but we weren't good for each other."

The admission feels good. Since their breakup, he's had imaginary confrontations in his head, wondering what he would say to her whenever he finally had the chance. He hadn't expected for things to feel so natural, for him to find closure and peace.

She reaches out and pulls him into a quick hug. "Thank you," she says when they break apart. "I'm sure my dad will like it."

When he walks back to the staircase to finish his last minute packing, Ron is waiting for him. "Don't worry," Dean assures him. "She's just my friend."

Almost grudgingly, Ron nods. Before he has a chance to speak, Dean moves past him. He's moving on, and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. He and Ginny are on good enough terms. Nothing else should matter.


	4. Sleepless

_Creativity Month: DeanPansy, bookmark_

 _Quilting Appreciation: DeanPansy_

 _Jewel Challenge, moonstone ring: Write about moonlight_

 _Caffeine Awareness, mocha: chocolate_

 _Library Loves, Miranda's Big Mistake: sparkle, scarf, charity_

 _Character Appreciation: pureblood_

 _Disney, "Kiss the Girl": Write about an interrupted kiss_

 _Days of the Month, Get Over It Day: Write about getting over something_

 _Buttons: Pansy Parkinson, encouragement_

 _Lyric Alley: Feel the rush way up here_

 _Word Count: 1243_

* * *

 _Warning: mentions of suicidal thoughts._

* * *

I _._

Dean has never been one to break the rules. While he isn't a stick in the mud who insists on enforcing rules, he's always personally preferred to be obedient. Tonight, however, he doesn't really care.

Since the war, he has been plagued by nightmares. He can't remember what it's like to sleep without seeing pain, destruction, and death behind his eyelids. Laying in bed and staring at the ceiling do nothing to help, so he finds himself at the Astronomy Tower, long after curfew.

There's something calming about the milky moonlight washing the grounds below in its glow. Dean makes a mental note to bring his sketchbook with him one night. Since the war, he hasn't been able to draw much. His muse seems to have abandoned him. Now, however, he thinks that maybe this quiet, tranquil place can be enough to inspire him again.

"Oh."

Dean turns at the sound of the annoyed voice. Pansy Parkinson stares at him, arms folded over her chest. "You're here," she says, scowling.

"Yep. I'm here," he says simply before tearing his gaze away from her. "Sorry to disappoint."

He expects to hear retreating footsteps. Instead, she moves closer, leaning against the railing. "You couldn't sleep either?" she asks.

He's surprised by the gentleness in her tone. They aren't friends by any stretch of the imagine. Their Houses have always been rivals. On more than one occasion, he's heard her call him _Mudblood_ under her breath. So why should she care about his sleeping habits?

"Nightmares," he confirms, though he doesn't know why he bothers answering her at all. "You?"

She doesn't answer at first. She presses herself a little closer to the railing. Dean is afraid that she might lose her footing and tumble over it. Finally, she sighs. "Guilt."

It isn't the answer he'd expected. Pansy has always seemed like an ice queen— so cold and untouchable— that he's always assumed she doesn't have a heart at all. He doesn't know how to handle her admission that she feels anything, or the fact that she's actually willing to open up to him.

"Sorry," he says because he doesn't know what else to say.

She looks at him, a bitter smile on her lips. "No you're not," she says. "I'm the girl who was willing to sell out Potter just months ago. I'm the girl everyone hates."

Everything she says is true. Dean has even seen members of her own House look at her with disgust clear in their eyes. He remembers his own burning anger in the Great Hall when she tried to rally others against Harry. Those dark emotions are softer now, and all he feels is pity.

"I don't hate you." And he means it. "Everyone deserves a second chance."

Her lips quirk. "Even me?"

"Everyone."

"Why are you being nice?" she asks. "I'm not some charity case. Just for the record."

Dean shrugs. "My mum always told me that life is too short for anger. Forgiveness and love are what we need."

"She sounds smart for a Muggle."

It's still a backhanded compliment, but Dean supposes it's progress.

II.

It becomes their little meeting place, and Dean actually finds himself looking forward to those sleepless nights. Pansy isn't as bad as he's always believed, and he realizes he actually enjoys her company.

"What are you doing?" she asks, glancing up from her book and tucking a bookmark between the pages.

Dean taps his sketchbook and shrugs. "Drawing."

"Me?" Her dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight, and she scoots closer. "Let me see."

"It isn't finished yet…"

She doesn't seem to hear him; maybe she just doesn't care. She tugs the sketchbook out of his hand, smiling. "You're really good at this."

"It's the first thing I've drawn since… Well, it's been a while."

In his eyes, the sketch is a little too rough. He can see every imperfection, and he hates it. This isn't his best work, and he knows he can do better. But Pansy doesn't seem to care. She traces her finger over the lines, her smile broadening. "It's still really good," she assures him.

"I'm being complimented by a Slytherin," Dean chuckles. "Am I dreaming?"

With a roll of her eyes, she reaches over and pinches him roughly.

"Ow!"

Pansy smirks in triumph. "Not dreaming," she says. "So, nightmares aside, why do you come here? There are plenty of places in the castle."

Dean hesitates. Typically, they don't talk about anything personal. They sit in silence or exchange pleasantries and small talk. He swallows dryly, turning his gaze to the stars overhead. "It's the only place that that I both feel at peace and so completely alive," he answers. "The stars are calm, but the height gives me a rush."

Silence hangs between them, interrupted only when she climbs to her feet. "I'm off to bed."

It's only after she's gone that Dean thinks he strange it is that he misses her.

III.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Pansy asks, breaking off a piece of her chocolate bar and handing it over.

Dean accepts it, nibbling it and enjoying the creamy sweetness on his tongue. "Sure."

It's strange enough when they go beyond small talk. For Pansy to actually willingly open up without any encouragement feels like a blink and you'll miss it, once in a lifetime moment.

She adjusts her scarf, her fingers twitching nervously over the green and grey fabric. "That first night... " The Slytherin trails off, taking a deep breath. "I didn't just come up here because of insomnia. I… I was thinking about killing myself."

It isn't what he'd expected, and he doesn't quite know how to respond. Everyone who has survived is damage in their own ways. Most don't talk about it because it's easier to bottle it up inside. He wonders how hard the admission must be for Pansy. She didn't fight in the war, but she still managed to lose everything in the end.

"Do you still want to?"

"No. I mean… Yes. Some days." She groans, scrubbing her hand over the back of her neck. "It's… It's complicated. Every day, I'm reminded that I screwed up royally, and it's so damn lonely. It's easy to think that the world would be better if I died."

"It wouldn't be," Dean says quietly.

She almost smiles at that. With a heavy sigh, she takes Dean's hand. "At night, you make me feel like I matter," she adds, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "I'm trying to get over it. Maybe it's working; I don't know. I do know that you… You make me feel like everything might be okay."

"It…" He lets the word dangle, unsure how to finish it. Are there any words that could even help now?

Instead, he leans in. Her lips tug into a soft smile, and he's glad. At least it won't be awkward.

The moment their lips meet, there's an annoyed hiss behind them. The two students pull away quickly, and Dean groans when he sees Mrs. Norris there, her tail twitching. She stares at the moment longer before trotting off urgently, yowling all the way.

"We should go," Dean suggests.

Pansy nods. "Definitely."

But he leans in, kissing her again— a proper kiss this time. Maybe they're wasting precious seconds that should be spent escaping, but he doesn't care. If he ends up in detention for this, it will have been worth it.


	5. Teenagers

_Creativity Month: Dean &Lavender, perfume _

_Character Appreciation: only child_

 _Disney, Flounder: Write about a supportive friend_

 _Jewel Challenge, Verdite bracelet: Write about someone reaching a decision_

 _Caffeine Awareness, Café Bombòn: "You're so sweet."_

 _Word Count: 488_

* * *

"What about this?" Lavender asks, holding up an eyeshadow palette.

Dean shakes his head. The colors are lovely, and they would really bring out the gold in his sister's eyes, but the thought of her wearing makeup makes him feel uneasy. It doesn't matter that Sam is turning thirteen; she's still his baby sister, and baby sister's don't wear makeup.

Lavender rolls her eyes. "I don't know how to shop for siblings," she says. "Only child, remember?"

"But you're a girl. You know how to shop for girls."

She snorts. "You've shopped for your other sister without incident," she points out, setting the eyeshadow aside and moving farther down the aisle, plucking assorted beauty supplies and examining them before returning them to the shelf. "Why should Sam be any different?"

"Vanessa has always been a tomboy," Dean explains. "All I had to do was buy her something I'd like."

It shouldn't be this difficult. Most days, it might not be. But Sam is turning thirteen this year. Dean can't just give her a doll for her birthday and call it a day. Technically, he could, but he wouldn't be a very good brother if he did that.

"What about this?" Lavender asks, holding up a perfume bottle.

The bottle is pretty enough. It's pink crystal and shaped like a heart. Dean accepts it and sprays it. A mist of vanilla and gardenia fills the air, and he smiles. It's exactly the thing Sam would like, and his status as _best big brother ever_ will be secure. "Perfect!"

"It smells amazing, and she'll be able to wear it on dates…"

Dean frowns. "My sisters aren't going to date anyone," he says. "Ever. I have a wand, and I will hex anyone who tries."

His friend rolls her eyes and gives him a playful shove. "You're so sweet," she says dryly. "But you know it's not that simple. They're independent human beings who can make their own decisions."

Dean exhales heavily. It's hard to admit that his sisters are growing up. Vanessa will be sixteen in December, and Sam is so close to thirteen that it hurts. He wishes they could remain tiny, young pains in the ass, that they didn't have to get older. It breaks his heart knowing they'll be out on their own one day, and neither of them will need their big brother anymore.

Lavender seems to understand. She wraps an arm around Dean, patting his shoulder. "It's okay," she says gently. "Growing up is part of life. You have to let go eventually."

He scowls. She's right, of course, but that doesn't mean he likes admitting it.

She lets her arm drop and offers him a reassuring smile. "Well?"

Dean brushes his thumb over the perfume bottle before nodding. "Time to let Sam grow up," he says, and, as they walking back down the aisle, he grabs the eyeshadow palette Lavender had held up earlier.


	6. Drink

_Creativity Month: Dean &Ted, bottle of wine_

 _Word Count: 624_

* * *

"Got a surprise for you."

Dean looks up from his sketchbook when he hears Ted's voice. His brows raise in confusion when he notices the bottle in the older man's hand. "And what is that?" he asks with a soft laugh.

Ted grins, turning it so Dean can read the label. It doesn't help. Dean knows absolutely nothing about wine. "Cheap stuff," Ted answers. "Not the best, but it will have to do. At least I can cast a nice charm to chill it. Nothing worse than hot wine."

"I wouldn't know." Dean sets the sketchbook and pencil aside. "What's brought this on?"

Since they've been together on the run, they've taken special care with their resources. For the most part, they've lived off the land. Every now and then, though, they would risk a quick stop in a Muggle town for convenience.

Wine is a luxury item. Dean cannot imagine why Ted would feel it's so necessary.

Ted sits beside him, brushing his thumb over the cork in the bottle. "I was thinking about our talk the other night. You never having a father figure…"

Dean feels his blush heat his face. He scrubs his hands over his cheeks as though that can somehow make everything better. He's never really opened up to anyone about his home life like that. Only Seamus knows that he's never met his father and that his sisters' dad kept his distance from Dean before finally running off before his youngest sister was born.

He doesn't know why he told Ted. It isn't as though there's really anything the older man can do except feel sorry for him. Judging by the bottle of wine, that's exactly what's happening now.

 _Sorry your luck with father figures has been shit. Can I interest you in a life of alcoholism to cope?_

"For all I know," Ted says, interrupting Dean's thoughts, "you've already had your first taste of alcohol. If that's the case, well… I tried."

"I haven't," Dean answers truthfully.

He's always been curious about it but far too scared of getting caught to even think of trying to smuggle any into the house. Even at Hogwarts, when Seamus managed to sneak in whisky, Dean was afraid his mother would somehow find out.

Ted's hazel eyes twinkle at that. He taps the bottle with his wand, muttering a spell to chill the bottle and cool off the contents within. "My father gave me my first drink when I turned eighteen," he explains. "I let Dora have her first taste of wine when she was seventeen… Though, I'm fairly sure it wasn't actually her first drink."

Dean chuckles. From what he's heard about Nymphadora Tonks, she seems like a handful. "So… You're giving me my first drink?" he asks. "Like…"

He can't bring himself to voice the rest of that sentence.

 _Like a father would._

Ted smiles at him as he pulls the cork from the bottle. "No cups," he says. "Looks like it's straight from bottle then."

Dean accepts it and presses the bottle to his lips, tilting it up. The wine taste strange. It's like someone mixed grape juice with rubbing alcohol, and he tries not to gag.

"It can't be that bad," Ted mutters, taking the bottle and gulping down a mouthful. He spits it out immediately. "That is awful. I'm so sorry. I swear most alcohol isn't that bad."

But Dean doesn't care about how the wine tastes. All he can think about is that Ted, a man he's only known for maybe a month, wanted to have a fatherly moment with him.

He scoots over, wrapping his companion in a quick hug. "Thank you."

He only hopes Ted will understand exactly what he's thanking him for.


	7. Therapeutic

_Auction: Dean Thomas_

 _Amber's Attic: quote below_

 _Book Club, Media: television, pleasant, offer_

 _Days, Sibling Day: Write about siblings_

 _Lyric Alley: But I live with that._

 _Ami's Audio, Beware the Rainbow Lights: rainbow_

 _Word Count: 570_

* * *

" _How many wars will it take to learn that only the dead return?"_

 _-Andrea Gibson_

* * *

"Dean? Dean!"

He bolts upright, his heart racing painfully in his chest. Cold sweat beads his skin, and it takes several moments to bring himself back to reality. He is home. The familiar pressure of the couch's springs press against his back. A pleasant female voice drifts from the television.

He's fallen asleep in the living room. Again. He can lie and say it's an accident. No one would dare contradict him. After all, they all know he's still broken from the war. They know that there are pieces of himself that didn't return. No one would dare suggest that he's sleeping in position that makes it easy to defend his mother and sisters. No one would suggest that he's struggling to give up the habits he learned while on the run.

"I'm fine, Samantha," he mutters.

His sister scowls, as she often does when anyone calls her by her proper name. "Sammie," she says with a sniff, sitting down; Dean barely moves his feet in time. "People who are fine don't scream in their sleep like that."

He swallow dryly. He's been trying so hard to keep it together. His family's had enough to worry about over the past year. He wants them to be able to move on, to pretend there's nothing left to worry about. "Nightmare," he says, but he cringes at how obviously flimsy the word sounds. "Nothing to worry about."

Sammie raises a brow at him. She draws her rainbow pajama-clad knees to her chest, studying him for a moment. "Why do you have nightmares?"

Dean feels a flicker of panic pulse through his body. No one has explicitly asked since the war. They've let him carry on and just accepted that he has this horrible burden to live with. "You don't want to hear my stories."

There are those who talk about the war like it's the most glorious thing. Some sit around the pubs, raising their glasses as they recount the battles with excruciating detail. Dean doesn't understand those people. He's watched too many people die before his eyes, and he's felt pieces of himself slip away and die. How can anyone brag about going through hell?

"I'll fix some tea," she offers, climbing to her feet and hurrying off before Dean can protest.

He glances at his watch. Three in the morning. Somehow, he knows he won't be falling back asleep.

Maybe it will be therapeutic to talk to someone about what he's been through. Sammie doesn't understand, but maybe that will make it easier.

Dean knows he will never be the same. Those who have survived will always be plagued with fear, nightmares, and regret. But maybe, at the very least, he can begin to heal at least.

He can only hope.

Sammie returns a few minutes later with two mugs of steaming liquid.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Dean asks, accepting the mug and inhaling the aromatic steam with a ghost of a smile. "I thought you liked your beauty sleep."

Sammie takes a seat beside him, stretching out so that her long legs drape over his lap. "Some things are more important," she says. "Like knowing my big brother is okay."

Dean relaxes slightly, nodding. Opening up won't be easy, but Sammie makes it feel like it's possible.

"It all started with a letter."


End file.
